


Fool's Mate

by templeandarche



Category: Endgame (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Non-Chronological, Slice of Life, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:30:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2806106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/templeandarche/pseuds/templeandarche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has nowhere else to be at the moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fool's Mate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ide_cyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ide_cyan/gifts).



> For ide_cyan. Hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Endgame and all it's characters are properties of Showcase Canada - I'm only borrowing them for awhile.

I. _Chess is imagination_ \- David Bronstein 

Oleg had yelled at him to escape the four walls of his suite and deal with his anguish outside. He pointed out the windows to the ocean on the horizon and ordered Arkady to scream his grief to the heavens and feel the sand under his bare feet instead of the Huxley’s luxe carpeting. Arkady settles for opening the windows as wide as possible to let in the sounds of the gulls and the smell of the sea air. It’s early - closer to night than day and the sun hasn’t yet fully risen. He sips at his espresso and closes his eyes; if he focuses hard enough he can almost feel the misty breeze on his face.

The windows open only centimetres (no hotel wants to deal with the aftermath of suicidal guests). He presses his palm against the small patch of damp screen and idly wonders the last time he felt the rain on his face.

 

II. _The highest art of the chess player lies in not allowing your opponent to show you what he can do_. - Garry Kasparov

He’s become a bit of a tourist attraction - and not because of his Grand Master status. The Huxley may not be the best rated luxury Vancouver hotel (Danni tells him that honor falls to the Fairmont Pacific Rim according to Trip Advisor), but the staff, food, and Huxley name still command a fair price for a night and full bookings for peak seasons.

Arkady Balagan’s name adds to the allure. Though the average visitor has little idea where he ranks on the World Chess Circuit, they know the story. Of Rosemary’s murder. Of the man with a mind so brilliant he can crush opponents in online battles of black and white, but no control of his own body. Arkady has become folklore, a cautionary tale whispered among the staff (and romanticised by the younger maids who sigh over his devotion to his dead fiancée; linens and towels tell no lies). The _Province_ has run with the story and often posts online articles regaling crimes and mysteries he helps solve. Guests check in and immediately want to find the famed chess star who wanders the hotel, barefoot with a bottle of vodka in his hand, clad in a striped bathrobe.

They approach him all smiles and eager for a picture or a quick conversation. On good days he obliges for the cell phone photos that get posted to tweetface (hashtag #grandmasterhuxely - Sam loves to print out the shots and leave them around the suite) or faceplant or whatever internet social media site he has no patience for. 

On the bad days he offers no apologies for his surly behaviour and muttered Russian expletives. Most tourists are too stunned (or polite) to react, but the angry Texan on his third honeymoon with a wife a quarter of his age wasn’t impressed. 

They exchange words, loudly, and the rest of the lobby notices. Stillwell is on duty at the front desk and she discreetly phones Hotel Security.

By the time Hugo arrives, the American’s Stetson lies flat under Arkady’s bare heel and the right collar of his shirt is ripped down the seam, exposing his chest.

Hugo forcefully separates them before any blood is shed and he drags the still-bellowing chess master to the elevators. He slams his hands on the call button and deposits the smaller Russian unkindly against the closed elevator doors.

“I don’t care how much time Vivian Huxley has comped you for your suite. You pull that crap again with a guest and, medical condition or not, I’ll toss your ass out of this hotel myself.” Hugo jabs a finger in Arkday’s face for emphasis.

Arkady smirks, enjoying Hugo’s increasing agitation. Baiting this bear of man is a favourite past time for him.

The elevator dings its arrival to the lobby and Arkady, without missing a beat, steps backward onto the (luckily) empty car. He mockingly bows, and as he straightens, holds down the ‘door open’ button. 

“Do not worry, Hugo. I’m sure it will never come to that. Whom else would the patrons of this establishment rely on when your ineptitude as head of security fails them?”

He releases the button and crosses his arms. “Please make sure someone from housekeeping sends up my dry cleaning.” 

The look on Hugo’s face almost makes up for his ruined shirt.

Almost.

 

III. _It is unjust, and sometimes very untrue, though it is a common theory, to hold that it is sacrifices which make the beauty of a combination, and that the combination is prettier by the magnitude of the sacrifices_ \- Eugene Znosko-Borowski

He doesn’t remember much after the explosion - he’s grateful that, for once, his exceptional memory failed him. It’s just a blur of the sound of gunshots and sirens and the smell of smoke mingling with the salty taste of his tears. 

Pain. From his knees scraped raw against the pavement when he collapsed and from the brute force of someone’s entire body keeping him from rushing into the burning car (the hotel’s head of security? he can’t remember).

Then, the sharp prick of a needle and oblivion.

Arkady wakes in his suite a few hours later; cottony mouth and aching body. Pippa is there, waiting, and once he sees her eyes wet and blood rimmed he breaks down with her.

She encircles his body with arms that feel so different than his love’s and they weep together.

***

He spends the next while alternating between drinking vodka and avoiding everything else. His mother and Oleg leave condolences on his voicemail (the sadness in Oleg’s voice is undeniable; he met Rosemary in Paris and declared Arkady the luckiest man in the world for convincing such a woman to marry him). Rosemary and Pippa’s parents want to discuss burial plans and wills and all he can think about is how he and Rosemary had come to Canada to tell them they were to be grandparents. Instead they were picking out her coffin.

The police come to question him for answers he doesn’t have. When they ask if anyone would want to hurt him or Rosemary he shrugs and gestures with his shot glass, sloshing vodka onto his fingers. “Maybe it was Putin.”

They leave soon after, encouraging him in a polite, yet forceful, way to stay within reach. He ignores them.

He has nowhere else to be at the moment.

***

The morning of Rosemary’s funeral Arkady’s hands tremble as he straightens his tie. Too much alcohol and too little sleep, he thinks.

Pippa helps, somber in her black dress. He’s proud of her brave face and grateful for the feel of her hand clutching his as they ride the elevator to the lobby.

His shoes are new and expensive, but they fit poorly. His footsteps echo across the lobby and he nods at the hotel manager, Barbara Stillwell who informs him that their car is waiting; as are a few reporters who are camped out on the sidewalk. Her eyes are sympathetic and it curdles his stomach. 

Arkady doesn’t want her pity.

He feels Pippa suck in her breath and try to control her emotions; he knows she doesn’t want to break down in front of the press vultures looking for a quick byline. 

He takes the lead, shielding her from the upcoming media onslaught. He only makes it a few steps towards the sliding doors before he realizes the pounding in his ears is actually his heart jackhammering in his chest. 

Arkady yanks at his tie, which feels like a python coiling around his neck. He can’t get enough air and he wants to scream in panic but his throat is closing in on him and all he can do is wheeze.

“Ark? What’s wrong?” Pippa asks as he stumbles to the floor, gasping desperately for air, which only serves to feed his increasing panic. Everything is rushing forward like a freight train. He can’t see much of anything except his own fear blurred into white light and he feels like he’s drowning in it with no hope for rescue.

The world collapses in on him and he falls under, into blackness.

When he comes to, hours have passed and the funeral is over.

Arkady doesn’t leave his room again for nearly a month.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my amazing betas and sounding boards. You are wonderful.
> 
> In chess, Fool's Mate, also known as the "Two-Move Checkmate", is the checkmate in the fewest possible number of moves from the start of the game.


End file.
